


One Hundred Tuesdays (and Nary a Wednesday in Sight)

by pyrebi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedic Violence, Dark Comedy, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Gen, Humor, Longsuffering Commentary, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-15
Updated: 2008-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrebi/pseuds/pyrebi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really, this was getting ridiculous. Horrible and wrenching and sad, but ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Hundred Tuesdays (and Nary a Wednesday in Sight)

Sam, you understand, had held jobs before (you know, those regular ones with paychecks and bosses). He'd been in college once. He understood the inherently evil nature of Mondays—the weariness, the stress, the loss of the will to live. Here in this life again, Dean and him and the road, he would still blame misfortune on Mondays if he could. He’d rub his temples and mutter “god I hate Mondays” when his head hurt or there were no leads or Dean was being insufferable.

Not anymore. It’s all about Tuesdays anymore. Tuesday after Tuesday after Tuesday. There is only one thing Sam Winchester hates more than Tuesdays, now.

And that is Asia.

\--

_The Seventh Tuesday_

“Sit there. Don’t move, don’t touch anything,” Sam says, pointing to the chair in the middle of the room. Narrowing his eyes, he adds, “Don’t even scratch your nose.”

Dean shoots him a look. “Dude. Not cool.”

“Just…sit there, okay?” Sam asks, his voice taking on a slightly desperate pitch.

Dean slumps into the chair and spreads his knees wide, looking for all the world like a petulant teenager. An hour later, he’s jiggling his leg so hard that Sam can hear the jingle of the change in his brother’s pocket from ten feet away.

Forty minutes after that, Dean stands. Sam, who had been researching time loops on the laptop, snaps, “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Gotta pee,” Dean explains. Then, after a brief moment of contemplation, he adds, “And you’re not coming with me.”

Sam glares. “Sit back down. I’ll get you a bottle.”

“Aw, hell no. I swore that after I got my own car, I’d never take a leak in a bottle again. Had enough of that when we were kids.”

Grimacing, Sam shrugs. John didn’t like making a bunch of stops at rest areas. So he stands as well and says, “Fine. But I’m totally going with you.”

So Sam sees it when Dean trips over the rug on the tiles and cracks his skull against the tub.

And Sam decides that Dean’s not allowed to go to the bathroom any more. At least not until Wednesday.

\--

_The Eleventh Tuesday_

Sam knows his brother is chivalrous. (Sometimes.)

Thus it comes as no surprise when Dean tries to stop the guy outside the gas station from beating up his girlfriend. It comes as a bit more of a surprise when the girl stoves in Dean’s head with a bottle for daring to interfere.

Ungrateful bitch.

\--

_The Twenty-Third Tuesday_

One minute. Two, tops. That’s all Sam had spent talking to the suspicious-looking young man at the other end of the bar. So how did Dean manage to get a hold of a fifth of tequila in that time? Sam hadn’t known people _actually_ shouted “ _chug chug chug!_ ” outside of frat parties, but he learns something new every day.

“ _Dean!_ ” he hisses, snatching the nearly-empty bottle from his brother’s hand, much to the consternation of the patrons circling his brother. “Are you _stupid?_ ”

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean grins. “That twenty bucks is as good as mine.”

And that’s how Sam knows his brother really _is_ stupid. He glances at his watch. 10:12pm. Less than two hours to go, so he drags Dean out the door and loads him up in the Impala.

 _Respiratory failure. Choking on vomit._ Sam runs a checklist of the ways one can die from alcohol poisoning through his head as he speeds along the road towards the hospital. _Spontaneous liver failure? Maybe?_

What he doesn’t count on is Dean deciding that going to the hospital is lame and getting out of the car. While it's going 70mph.

There’s a jolt and a nasty-sounding thump under the Impala’s right rear tire and Sam will never _ever_ be able to go over a speed bump without cringing again.

\--

_The Twenty-Ninth Tuesday_

Sam’s sure (so sure) that it’s the Mystery Spot’s fault. So one Tuesday he just buys a ton of gasoline and sets the whole place ablaze. He watches with twisted satisfaction as the flames crackle higher and higher.

And that’s when he notices that Dean’s nowhere to be found.

\--

_The Thirty-Eighth Tuesday_

Jess loved Mythbusters. She did. She used to make Sam watch it every Friday. And he remembers very clearly the episode where they tested the rumor that CDs could explode inside computers.

So when Dean smacks the side of the loudly-whirring laptop and grumbles, “What’s wrong with this thing?” before leaning his face his face down to inspect it, Sam knows what’s about to happen.

Dean doesn’t jiggle as much as the ballistic gel dummy, but there’s a hell of a lot more blood.

\--

_The Fortieth Tuesday_

Sam had always believed the getting-stuck-on-train-tracks thing was so contrived. So when the Impala splutters and dies _right over_ a set of tracks, he groans. Seconds later a whistle blares impossibly close and he and Dean are scrambling out of the car with panicked looks on their faces.

Standing just off to the side, Dean freaks out while Sam restrains him. “My baby! We…no…can’t! _Sammy!_ ”

And Dean wails like a child as the screaming train plows into the Impala.

And then Dean makes a horrible wet gagging sound as a missile-like piece of the Impala’s side mirror lodges in his neck.

There’s something poetic in the two of them going out together like that, but Sam really can't bring himself to contemplate it.

\--

_The Fifty-Fourth Tuesday_

“Man, she’s a real dog, isn’t she?” Dean says, pointing a thumb at the lady behind the counter.

The next booth over an enormous man looks up from his plate of french fries. “What’d you say about my mother?”

That’s how Sam learns that if you punch a guy just right, you actually can shove his nose up into his brain.

\--

_The Sixty-Ninth Tuesday_

“Am I speaking to Sam?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounds appropriately mournful, and Sam wonders why he isn’t already listening to Asia.

“We have reason to believe that someone you know—a Mr. Tull, according to a statement—has had…an accident. We’re so sorry to have to ask, but could you come down to the morgue to verify his identity?”

So Sam drives down to the morgue and watches as the mortician draws a sheet away from Dean’s pale face. Sam waits, but there’s no Asia, so he grimaces and says, “Yeah, it’s my brother. How did it happen?”

The mortician looks a little scandalized, and rushes, “His heart gave out. Guess he’d been, ah, _with_ Lucy Patterson…and he just…went limp under her.”

And unbidden, Sam has a mental image of sweaty naked Dean just kicking the bucket like some geriatric Casanova and he pinches the bridge of his nose sharply in a desperate attempt to scrub his mind of it. It’s horrifying on so, _so_ many levels.

His last thought before he sits up in bed again is that he’s really surprised it took this many Tuesdays.

\--

_The Seventy-Seventh Tuesday_

Sam has learned by now the danger signs. Machinery is bad. Suspended objects are bad. Any uneven or damp surface is _bad, bad, bad_. He keeps Dean away from anything and everything harmful.

So he just _doesn’t get_ how Dean manages to drown in the sink while brushing his teeth.

(It never stops being shocking and sickening and sad, you see. But all the same, Sam is starting to think somebody’s toying with him.)

\--

_The Eighty-Second Tuesday_

“No, Dean, don’t pick up the machete—!”

\--

_The Ninety-Fifth Tuesday_

Dean is just trying to fish one of his socks out of the bottom of the washing machine. He’s got his head inside, trying to see if any more are stuck to the sides.

That’s when the very distracted lady with the very annoying son slams her fifty-pound bag of laundry down onto the lid of what she thought was an unused machine.

Sam thinks everybody freaks out way too much for how little blood there was.

\--

_The One Hundredth Tuesday_

“No sex, no drinking, no showering, no shaving, no pissing, no eating, no getting too close to you, no getting too far away from you, no driving, no diving, no insulting, and no patting animals,” Dean rattles back, looking bewildered. “Jesus, Sammy, you think that’s enough restrictions? Why don’t you just kill a guy?”

Sam lets his head fall into his hands.

And when Dean leans against a column and has the entire porch of the quaint little bed-and-breakfast fall down on him, Sam decides that enough is enough, because “no leaning” shouldn’t have to go on the list.

\--

So. Tuesdays. Sam’s _pretty much convinced_ that they’re the work of the devil. Or several devils. Whichever.

And if he has to listen to “Heat of the Moment” one more time, he’s afraid of what Dean’s hundred and first death is gonna be. (He suspects it will have something to do with tiny pieces of alarm-radio embedding themselves in flesh or worming their ways into food or catching fire to bedspreads or something equally dramatic and irritating.)

But, as horrible as this whole thing is, as sick and twisted and wrenching…

And as much as he wants to break the cycle…

And as much as he misses the laziness of Sunday and the uselessness of Thursday…

And as much as it _kills_ him watching Dean die…

Sam knows he always has one more day with Dean.

_(And come Wednesday, however far off it may be, he’ll miss that certainty.)_

Until then, Sam just grits his teeth and swears to himself that if he ever meets Bill Murray, he’ll punch the dude in the face.

Groundhog Day indeed.


End file.
